I’m a sucker for fairy tale retellings, from Cinderella to LGBTQ and gender-flipped iterations. What can I say? As far as I’m concerned, there are never enough. As long as there are writers and storytellers there will be creative new takes on the classic stories passed down through the generations. One of those stories that is told time and time again is the story of Little Red Riding Hood. A girl on her way to take some goodies to her sick grandmother is told not to stray from the path…but when she meets a wolf on the way, she doesn’t do as she was told. The wolf eats her grandmother and takes on her form to try to trick Red. But what if it didn’t have to go that way?

In these Little Red Riding Hood retellings we get to see how the story might’ve played out differently. In some the wolf takes the place of Little Red, in others she becomes the hunter instead of the hunted. Some are set in the 21st century while others sweep us away into a timeless fairy tale world. But in all cases these unique takes are ready to keep an age old story thriving even into modern day.

For those of us who love reading both fiction and nonfiction, there’s a certain category of book that combines these loves: nonfiction books about books. While I do sometimes read literary biographies, history, and criticism, there’s a particular category that rules them all. I love the books that dive into the fascinating stories behind literary phenomena. Because books, even singularly weird fiction that seems like it must have sprung from an author’s brain fully formed, don’t truly arrive out of nowhere. They reflect the times around them. Authors inevitably draw their ideas from somewhere. A book’s impact can expand beyond those who’ve read it or even people who’ve ever heard of it.

These are the stories I crave. Having more context for books I love, like my problematic fave Little House on the Prairie, enriches my understanding of the series as an adult without detracting from my childhood memories. Then there are books I find loathsome, like Go Ask Alice. Reading about what horrors that book contributed to, like the so-called War on Drugs, stokes my righteous flames of anger. It’s very exciting to share this niche collection of books with you. I know that if this category of books appeals to you, you’ll eagerly tear through this list. So let’s get meta with these books about books.

I’ve always liked stories that work out okay. Once, when I was 15 or so, I threw a book across the room because the main character stepped aside so her best friend could marry the man she loved, because her friend loved him, too. (That book was, it turned out, a Jane Austen fan fiction retelling, so the pairing was predetermined. But that’s beside the point.) I loved the main character of this book and was furious that she ended up unhappy. I have always grown overly attached to the heroines of books, and I thought for a long time that meant I liked them.

For my 18th birthday, a friend gave me a copy of Geek Love. I was captivated from the first page by the Binewski circus family and their experimental children, in love with this strange family and with Oly, the narrator. Geek Love is not a pleasant book; it’s ugly and mean, and my inclination to like all of the characters was not supported by how cruel they all were to one another. Arty started a cult. The conjoined twins…perhaps I won’t say what happens with them. Miranda is presented as a character we can like, but even she is not necessarily likable.

But I loved every single one of them, while actively disliking most of them. And that made me wonder: Do book characters need to be likable? Do main characters, in particular, need to be likable? For many people, the answer depends on who that character is. A reader can love Patrick Bateman, actual (fictional) serial killer, but hate Bella Swan, (fictional) teenage girl. Sure, that’s because of sexism, and I will neither argue that it’s anything else nor dismiss that as irrelevant. Of course it’s relevant, but what I’m wondering is if it matters that Bella Swan is widely hated — she’s also widely loved, or at least Twilight is. (So is American Psycho, probably.)

Geek Love introduced me to the idea that I don’t have to like someone (fictional) to love them, that a complex and terrible character can be better than a simple and good character (see above, re: Twilight). It also, in retrospect, taught me that I am a simple fool who will convince myself that I like someone because I like their story, or because I think I am supposed to like the main character simply by virtue of their being the main character.

My other favorite book, besides Geek Love, is We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Merricat is very likable…to me. She tells her own story, as Oly does in Geek Love, and that closeness to the character surely contributes to the feeling of intimacy, tricks the reader (me) into liking them. Both are unreliable narrators, withholding information that might make us dislike them until we are in too deep. (Again, whenever I talk about us, or about a generic reader, I really mean myself.)

The novel Basti by Intizar Husain begins with children in the fictional village of Rupnagar— which means beautiful place in Urdu—shopping for staple foods like salt and brown sugar. Trees here breathe “through the centuries,” time “speaks” in the voices of birds, the world is new, and the sky is fresh. From a distance, elephants look like mountains moving. For the children, including the novel’s protagonist, Zakir, one source of information about the world is the town shopkeeper, Bhagat-ji, a Hindu; Zakir’s father, Abba Jan, a Muslim, is another.  Bhagat-ji tells them that elephants could once fly and are hatched from eggs. Abba Jan, who is referred to as Maulana, a respectful term for a man of religious learning, tells them the earth is shaped from the expanding ocean and the ocean’s water came from a single pearl. Together their voices weave a tapestry of life that will be torn asunder in 1947 by the partition of India.

“Partition set in motion a train of events unforeseen by every single person who had advocated and argued for the division,” writes the historian Yasmin Khan. The intention of local leadership and the British Raj was that the two new states of India and Pakistan would allow for Hindu and Muslim self-rule in Hindu- and Muslim-majority areas. But loosely organized violence against minority populations on both sides led to the mass migration of ten to twenty million people to the countries run by their co-religionists, with an estimated 500,000 to three million killed. These killings occurred with what Khan calls “indiscriminate callousness” that included widespread disfigurement, mutilation, and rape. Conflict between India and Pakistan is ongoing to this day. Most scholarship, Khan argues in her book The Great Partition, has largely viewed these events as historically and culturally isolated, but she makes a compelling argument for locating it within “wider world history.”

The main narrative in Basti, which I read in a translation from the Urdu by Frances W. Pritchett, starts two decades after Partition, with Zakir abruptly recalled to his childhood memories by “the sound of slogans being shouted from outside” in Lahore. Zakir is an adult; his family has left the paradise of Rupnagar for the promise of Pakistan. It’s the early seventies, a time of political turmoil between the western and eastern halves of the country that led to further sundering and to a war with India. (East Pakistan became Bangladesh during this period.) Zakir has become a professor, but the buildup of violence closes the university, casting him adrift into a world of memory, history, and myth. “The rain poured down all night inside him,” Husain writes. “The dense clouds of memory seemed to come from every direction.”

In September 1852, when he was twenty-three, Tolstoy published his first piece of writing, in a Saint Petersburg monthly. Although it garnered praise, he was upset that the magazine had changed the title to “The History of My Childhood.” “The alteration is especially disagreeable,” he complained to the editor, “because as I wrote to you, I meant ‘Childhood’ to form the first part of a novel.”

Like Tolstoy, Elif Batuman always intended to write fiction. One of the essays in her first book, The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them, a collection based on her experiences as a grad student in the Stanford comparative literature Ph.D. program, had originally been pitched to a magazine—and accepted, Batuman thought—as a short story. “I had changed things to protect people’s identities,” she told me earlier this year over Zoom, “but then had to unchange them so they could fact-check it; the alternative was not to be published.” The piece appeared in print as “The Murder of Leo Tolstoy: A Forensic Investigation.”

Batuman approaches much of her life and work as a reader on the lookout for clues. Her autobiographical debut novel, The Idiot, follows a young Turkish American woman named Selin through her freshman year at Harvard as she studies elementary Russian and linguistics, falls in love with an inscrutable math-major senior, and stress-tests the capacity of the former to explain the behavior of the latter. Selin compulsively overreads everything and everyone she encounters, as if gathering evidence for a case that may reveal itself only in hindsight. Batuman’s second novel, Either/Or, published this year, picks up where The Idiot left off, covering Selin’s second year at Harvard, and serves as a reckoning with all the previously gathered clues. As the title suggests, it aims to explode the supposed distinction between an ethical and an aesthetic conception of the good life. It’s a paradoxical and seriously funny contraption, a bildungsroman that relentlessly deconstructs its author, the social world around her, and the very concept and value of fiction itself.

Speaking with Batuman about Either/Or feels a bit like watching someone ride a motorbike along a tightrope. At one point during our conversation, she took out a pen and paper to trace her argument through Kant, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and de Beauvoir. She expects from any book, her own included, nothing less than a real-time experiment in how we should think and live.

Day One

Productivity experts say that people shouldn’t sleep in the same area they work in, but what is bad for productivity is good for me. I wake up on the cheap, stained mattress I have next to my work area. To the right of the mattress are a lamp I bought because it looked like it belonged in a private investigator’s office, six guitar pedals, my guitar, and my laptop. There’s also my wooden desk, the drawers of which are filled with guitar picks and bug spray. I usually spend all day here drawing, playing with Photoshop, recording music, podcasting, watching stuff on YouTube, and staring off into space. I’ve lived in this apartment for four months, and in Austin for twenty, but I feel like I’ve lost track of time. In Austin, it’s easy to do that.

On the mattress I watch Lawrence of Belgravia, a documentary I’ve been avoiding because I don’t want the images of people I admire tarnished by knowing too much about them. It’s about Lawrence Hayward, the front man for the English eighties and nineties bands Felt, Denim, and Go-Kart Mozart. Lawrence (who goes by just his first name) never did anything not great, but at what cost! The doc shows him burning through bandmates and spiraling into homelessness and addiction before ending up, in his fifties, in a London council flat designed by Ernö Goldfinger. There’s a wonderfully OCD quality to Lawrence, who at one point explains his preference for white shirt buttons and at another specifies the only kind of guitar pick his band members are permitted to use. In the film, he intently studies the books and LPs that have inspired his songwriting: we see him examine the bindings, the liner notes, an image of Lou Reed. Why, he wonders, hasn’t he achieved stardom? It’s clear that some personal idiosyncrasies have hindered his progress. He talks about how great it would be to have his own private jet, but he refuses to own a phone or a computer. “Nobody has ever made any money on the internet,” he says, which makes me respect him even more. Out-of-touch people are the people I respect most these days.

Day Two

Today is the publication day of a book I wrote with my friend. I can hardly keep my eyes open; I’ve been working nonstop. I have a podcast episode to release about the history of American utopian experiments, and I have no idea how I’m going to ship all these books. I haven’t bought any shipping supplies because I didn’t think I would sell any copies. When you don’t live in a major-market city, it can be difficult to gauge public interest in what you’re doing.

September 14

I am in my mobile mall, which is my phone’s WiFi hotspot on the NJ Transit. Paynter Jacket Co. is this British couple, Becky and Huw, who make chore jackets in micro-batches. When you purchase a jacket, you also buy its journey, from sourcing the cloth to cutting the pattern to meeting with Sergio, who serges the jackets together in Portugal. I already have their perfect chore jacket from a micro-micro-batch, a Japanese tiger-print patchwork.

The latest is a Carpenter Jacket, so, not a chore jacket at all. So different! I dither between Elizabeth and Linden about the wash – “vintage” as though I’ve owned it for generations versus “dark rich,” stiff and authentic. 195 pounds sterling plus 30 pounds sterling for shipping is GBP 225, USD 260 and change, says the internet’s calculator. It will arrive in November so I get to have it twice, now in anticipation, and when it arrives. 

At Princeton Junction, I get on the Dinky to Princeton University ($3 one-way). I go directly to Wawa to get a coffee (free, all September, for “teachers”).

One of Werner Herzog’s lesser films is about fur trappers in Siberia: big men who sled for eleven months of the year in pursuit of sables, the small and silky martens that live east of the Urals, burrowing in riverbanks and dense woods, emerging at dusk and at dawn. Russian sable—barguzin—is one of the most expensive furs in the world. The trappers make their skis by bending birch with their own hands, the same way trappers have for a thousand years. They see their wives for only a few weeks a year. They seem to have no inner life, neither anxieties nor aspirations: no relationships besides those with their dogs, no goals beyond survival. “They live off the land and are self-reliant, truly free,” Herzog tells us: “No rules, no taxes, no government, no laws, no bureaucracy, no phones, no radio, equipped only with their individual values and standard of conduct.” The film is called Happy People.

***

There was a year in which I tried very hard to make a film about the decline of the fur industry in New York City and Connecticut, and all I ended up with was a fox’s foot, a holographic poster for vodka, and a hard drive full of footage that, had I ever finished the film, would have been strung together as an incoherent montage of fragmented memories.

I met Rebecca Godfrey in New York City in the spring of 1999. In my memory our meeting has something to do with her first book, a novel titled The Torn Skirt; perhaps she wanted to hand me a galley, or perhaps she’d already sent me one and I’d read it; I’m not sure. What I remember for certain was how surprised and intrigued I was by her, almost on sight. She had a wonderful face of unusual dimensions, a beautiful face, but with something better than beauty, visible especially in large eyes that were somehow ardent and reserved simultaneously. It was raining and I remember her looking up at me (she was quite small) from under her umbrella in a shy, expectant way that made me feel shy and expectant too.

The quiet restaurant we had planned on was closed and so we walked around for some blocks looking for just the right place—which turned out to be a bubble tea shop where we were the only customers. We talked about writing and music; she spoke (matter-of-factly, as I recall) of working on a second book. But more than anything we said, I remember her presence, the pleasure with which she dipped her long spoon into the fluted glass for more sweet tapioca bubbles, the directness of her gaze, the way she listened intently and spoke softly. She was thirty-two years old but she had an aura of impossible youth. Her presence was not exactly big. It was enchanting; I’m thinking of the words Nabokov used to describe a character in the story “Spring in Fialta”: “something lovely, delicate, and unrepeatable.

***

I blurbed The Torn Skirt when it was published in 2001, calling it a “hot book,” by which I meant like a hot hot hot diary entry, urgent and hormonal and romantic as heartbroken suicide pacts are romantic. But after that first meeting, I didn’t see Rebecca again for a long time. In 2005, I think she sent me a copy of her second book, Under the Bridge, an account of a real-life murder in British Columbia, her home turf. It received several Canadian prizes, including the Arthur Ellis Award for Nonfiction, but (I’m sorry to say) I didn’t get around to reading it. In 2008 she married Herb Wilson (who she met through the writer Paul La Farge) and moved to Pittsburgh, where he was getting a degree in philosophy; their daughter, Ada, was born there in 2009. We spoke on the phone and emailed a little during that time; I’m pretty sure she got me invited to Santa Maddalena, a writer’s retreat run by her mentor and friend Beatrice Monti in Tuscany. It wasn’t until she moved upstate to Red Hook (in Dutchess County) in 2011 that, because of interest plus proximity, we began seeing each other a lot.

The World Cup kicks off today in Qatar. To many people the entire extravaganza is one giant laundromat, a sports-wash of global proportions, designed to rinse clean the dirty laundry accumulated during the gulf state’s decade-long preparation for the event. An estimated six thousand five hundred migrant workers from India, Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka were reportedly killed during the stadiums’ construction in the last ten years. To memorialize them, the Danish team will wear subdued colors and hold black in reserve as its third strip. Yet despite Qatar’s grim politics and dubious human rights record, particularly with regard to LGBTQ rights for both residents and visitors (criticism vigorously rejected by Qatar’s rulers as “slander”), FIFA projects that five billion of us on this dying planet will feel compelled to watch.

This is my sixteenth World Cup as a sentient soccer being. In my lifetime, I’m discounting the 1950 event in Brazil—I was four months old and kicking, but not goal-ward—as well as the 1954 tournament in Switzerland, when either my parents kept it from me or we didn’t have a TV, or we did but it didn’t show the games. I’m also skipping the one in Sweden in 1958, when I might or might not have watched seventeen-year-old Pelé score twice in Brazil’s 5–2 victory in the final over Sweden; my memory isn’t speaking loudly enough on that one (see V. Nabokov, goalkeeper for Trinity College, Cambridge, circa 1919–22). No, the World Cup began in joyful delirium for me around when Philip Larkin insisted it did for sexual intercourse in general—“between the end of the Chatterley Ban and the Beatles’ first L.P.” My twelve-year-old self sat stunned, alone (no one in my northwest London family had any interest in football), and perfectly happy, as the Battle of Santiago raged, players from Chile and Italy kicking one another up in the air, landing a few punches, and creating a mayhem that required police intervention on four occasions. The English referee of that game, Ken Aston, is the man who went on to invent yellow and red cards.

Fourteen of my World Cups I watched or will watch on TV. The other two I watched in person—in England 1966, the only year that England won, and in the U.S.A. in 1994, when I traveled the country covering the games, sugar-high on Snickers and Coca-Cola (two of the event’s primary sponsors), for The New Yorker. What I remember most from that monthlong soccerpalooza, aside from Diego Maradona’s brilliant play during a Faustian effort to recapture his lost youth, unfortunately with the help of an ephedrine cocktail, is an enigmatic sign held up by German fans before their country’s game against Bulgaria at Giants Stadium. It read simply, IT’S NOT A TRICK, IT’S GERMANY. The packed stadiums were secured by overzealous security personnel stripping fans of anything that could conceivably be transformed into a weapon. As one of the guards told me, “You can throw a pretzel and you can hurt someone.” In contrast to the raucous crowds inside the stadiums, the cities beyond were more or less devoid of any kind of soccer atmosphere or activity. In Chicago, where the tournament began on June 17, the very day that OJ led the police down an LA highway in his Ford Bronco, it was all Michael Jordan 24-7.

Enough about the past. We are about to step into Qatar’s balmy winter, average 70 to 79 degrees Fahrenheit, with high humidity to be dispersed by serious AC in the outdoor stadiums. Of the more than two hundred national teams that set out on this journey four years ago, only thirty-two remain, eight groups of four, the top two in each group to move on to the knockout stage. The games will run for almost a month, culminating in a final on December 18.. As is almost always the case, Brazil is favored to win, followed by Argentina, France, England, and Spain, and you never rule out Germany. All these countries have lifted the trophy before, and wouldn’t it be great if someone else crashed the party? After all, Croatia (population 3.8 million) made it to the finals the last time out, and the ageless midfield genius Luka Modrić still runs their show. There is always Kevin De Bruyne’s Belgium (population 11.5 million) or, for a real long shot, Africa’s best hope, Senegal.

Read parts one, two, three, and four of “Hello, World!”

After June came July, and then came August. I lay in bed on those hot, still nights, sparks flying from the phone, the resolution bright and breaking.

What do you think reality is?

This week, PEN America sent a letter to Missouri school boards and the state legislature, demanding a reversal to a spate of book bans enacted thanks to the state’s Senate Bill 775. The bill makes any material with “visual depictions” of “graphic material” illegal for schools to have available. This is why so many graphic novels have been banned across the state.

My book, Body Talk: 37 Voices Explore Our Radical Anatomy is one of the books pulled by a district in the state for “review.” As of writing, it’s been off shelves for months, with no status update. This is the second time I’ve learned of this book being removed from shelves to be assessed for appropriateness to age group. It is a book about the physical and political realities of having a body, written specifically for those 12-18. The Missouri district which has the book in a review hold appears to have removed every book with art within it; if Body Talk is pulled, it will set a state-wide precedent, ensuring that my book is banned at schools across the state. I have, of course, cosigned the PEN letter.

Even though it is 2022, there are still authors who believe having a book banned is a badge of honor. This week, I read an editorial while doing my research for this roundup of book ban news, extolling how the writer hopes to be banned in order to amp up sales. They don’t have much for a marketing or publicity budget, and surely, that would do the job.

Except…it doesn’t.

Body Talk is my third anthology, and it is my poorest performing book to date. My first two anthologies earned out their advance in a year, meaning that the publisher made as much money as they gave me to make the book. That amount? $17,500 (after my agent’s cut, it’s $15,000). That $15,000, paid out in three separate periods, amounts to $5,000 each check, minus the near 40% I set aside from each in order to pay taxes. And since my books are anthologies, each contributor also gets paid from these checks, leaving me as the creator, the editor, and an author of the book to the remaining balance as my money.